


The Boy Who Never Prayed

by Floater



Category: 2PM, AOMG, DBSK/TVXQ, Jay Park (Musician)
Genre: Age Difference, Aged-Up Character(s), Angst, Anxiety, Bullying, Childhood Trauma, Crossover, Death, Degrading Talk of Religion, Depression, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Father/Son Incest, Incest, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Molestation, Murder, Obsession, Other, Pedophilia, Psychological Trauma, Religion, Suicide, Trauma, Trigger-Warnings, Underage Rape/Non-con, implied rape
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2018-08-21 23:20:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8264173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Floater/pseuds/Floater
Summary: "..to which my heart felt a beat for merely a boy with nearly no soul, and where my works of art were dust as to him; a beautifully cursed cherub of sorrow.whereas my books of lives' were so far outdone, by an unfortunate boy; made by the hands of me, set off to live in a world by him.and to the story of a forgotten child with the problems of a God resting on his shoulders, ended all by the bitter of his own hands:here is the story of park jaebeom."





	1. prologue

> > god was a careless man; he'd throw together random parts and fix together messy souls and call them beautiful--sending down ugly men and women with even uglier personalities to be born. 
>> 
>> how he could ever love such hideous creatures, I'd never be able to understand; how he could betray his so called angels when they turned to evil and did bad--I would never even fathom.  
> 
>> 
>> but _I _am not like god, you see?_  
>  _
>> 
>> __  
> I take my time when I create my beautifully cursed humans--and this one, I felt proudest.
>> 
>> __
>> 
>> ____
>> 
>> __though created by me, who was known for haste and power--bloodthirsty beasts and barbaric ways; he was very beautiful._ _
>> 
>> ____
>> 
>> __having carved him from a slab of white diamonds, he was pale as if he were me, and he shined with beauty--I dusted his skin with colour, he glowed with life. along with his lively skin tone, slight tinge of melanin a blessing, came his scent; sweet, sweet things such as fruit and flowers and his hugs would surely be soothing. his face small and his jaw soft, his waist cut thin, his form petite; I was already taking to the beautiful boy._ _
>> 
>> ____
>> 
>> __his eyes made of stars, his nose set straight, hair silky soft, his pouty lips made plush and coloured pink with the petal of a rose--and when he'd stick his cute little tongue out at me I'd laugh with joy. and his smile, so magnificently bright I would smile back. why would I not take to the boy?_ _
>> 
>> ____
>> 
>> __without the time to laze around as I made his soul, I picked the most innocent one and directed him to open his mouth--though sloppy, I kissed his soft lips; his eyes lit up with colour and the stars hidden within sparkled and shined; a galaxy of innocence and child-like dreams of sweets and happiness. that is when he finally became, _"park jaebeom" _____
>> 
>> ____
>> 
>> ____he answered to my call with the sweet, soft voice that paired with his personality--I doubted my thoughts on sharing him with that dirty world, I wanted to keep him to myself; I just wished he wouldn't have to witness the things on that 'earth'._ _ _ _
>> 
>> ____
>> 
>> ____before he could leave me to do the hateful deeds I was best at, I pressed kisses onto to his perfect body--top to bottom, all that was mine; first a kiss atop his fluffy mop of brown hair, the second on his forehead. a peck on the tip of his button nose, a kiss longer than the rest on his lips; to his chest where buds hardened from my cold breath to his soft stomach where muscles tightened from my gentle touch._ _ _ _
>> 
>> ____
>> 
>> ____a kiss to his pelvis, he gasped, to his thighs, he whimpered, down to his hairless legs and finally to his small feet--he looked at me with a understanding of my affection--wanting more of my affection, I could not give him what he wanted though.  
>  ____
>> 
>> ___  
> with a final goodbye, I sent him down to earth to be born--I was a little down to have given up such a beautiful boy, but what was done was done and I would have to watch him grow.___
>> 
>> ______
>> 
>> ____
>> 
>> ___sadly, I ascended the stairs to heaven and relay to my dearest god that I had made the most breathtaking boy and had sent him to earth. his words had left me dumbstruck, "I do not care for your sinful work." tone unforgiving, albeit popular belief of his "honourable" inability to hold grudges. I could only shout in anger as I was dragged out by hypocritical angels whom sensed my immediate wrath--but how could I have not seen it!?___
>> 
>> ______  
> _  
>  _  
>  __
>> 
>> __
>> 
>> the cruelty of a man, living a double life; with many names, many powers, and many lies. 
>> 
>> ______my beautiful human would be treated cruelly, all because of a careless god.______
>> 
>> __
>> 
>> ___and I could do nothing of it.___
>> 
>> __
>>
>>> 


	2. one

was there absolutely nothing, I could’ve done in those pitiful three years?

  
_no_ , but my feet ached.  


_no_ , but my eyes burned.  


_no_ , but my mind raced.  


_no_ , but my skin crawled.  


_no_ , but my hands twitched.  


_no_ , but my skin paled.  


_no_ , but my eyes dulled.  


_no_ , but my heart stopped.  


_no,_  


but I had excuses.  


who would’ve been creative enough, to imagine the ruler of the underworld wasting away in the refines of his chaotic mind; sat on his throne as fire burned and blood spilt?  


no one.  


I and my mind had never been connected, and so I only would think; would _know_. I and my mind were never connected, but **guilt** was so strong both could think so, could _know_ so.  
three years of an immobile king, saddened and with statues to compare with; because of a boy.  


I am pathetic.  


but _he_ is careless.  


who’d of known that he, such a worshipped man with stories of bravery and of a sacred death on upright wood, would have abandoned the most _pure_ of what he called angels, but I knew to be monsters—that he’d give up on such a sweet soul just because it was created by _me_ —who’d of known!  
three long, quiet years—to which, in a sorrowful intoxication, I wasted—full of little wonders and an unadulterated soul, had passed and, with little known but lot to learn; my beautiful boy grew.

...

he’s _three_ when his father’s face appears on the local news station, on the colourful t.v in the very center of his rundown daycare.  


he doesn’t understand though, what the big bold letters mean; nor the strange black lines and the dark numbers behind his father in the picture, the mean grin etched onto the man’s bruised face and the black board graced with his full name in between his usually warm, clean hands all so unfamiliar and confusing.

though the minute it appeared, in clear colour and perfect sound, his mother and brother were pulling him from the building—his friends watching curiously, confusedly, as his toy-sized book bag was forced onto his tired little arms and he was rushed out of the class, “bye-bye jay” they squeaked in unison, a mantra of high pitched yelps more like; but nonetheless he was leaving—and guided into a van he’d never seen before.  


but a van he’d never seen before, and a driver he’d just seen on the wide, colourful screen of his daycare television set; glowering like a madman.  


“appa?” he calls with innocent questioning, clambering into the van with his brother’s help until he was secure in the big space; his little feet barely swinging off of the edge in his smallness.  


the man growls at him a bit to hurry up—“shut it ‘nd strap up.” he says, already moving the wheel in a rush of adrenaline—though he cared not for the little one’s safety, but for his own anonymousness, he yelled for the struggling child to hurry.  


though his tone makes the three year-old weary, his lips quivering in an income of confusion struck tears, he ignores the toddler and takes no heed in stomping on the gas so hard his frail company (family, I suppose) flings forward in heaves and huffs—a mere sob leaving the three year-old in quakes despite trying to keep silent when jehan pats his hair.  


the unfamiliar van zooms and rushes past the streets he’d seen so often; leaving them a blur to his unfocused eyes.  


he wants to ask if they can visit the café with the big muffins because his tummy rumbles (though he’s not quite sure what words to use) and if they can get a blanket because jehan is cold and shivering—he wants to know why they’re leaving ulzzang, the charming orange tabby that eomma fed tuna every weekend; he wants to know why they’re leaving, why they’d be leaving their cozy apartment empty of them, why’d their neighbour, the swanky woman with pretty dark skin, would have nobody to greet in the morning...but..he doesn’t speak, and so he gets no answers.

soon enough, those familiar streets were replaced by the unknown, with night having fallen and light having diminished to lamps and signs, the unknown loomed heavily over the windows—and the unknown never ceased in its dark streets and shameless people hiding in the shadows.  


although, it indeed brought adventure (with trees that stood tall like mountain giants and clouds that moved like the sea, shadows that crept like clever heroes and sounds that meant a villains defeat), a little mind knew not what to expect; but what to _remember_...and so he cried and cried when the road got bumpy and when the sky turned grey and rain _‘pitta-patted’_ on the windows; neon streetlights glowering down at them and twinkling stars seemingly dying out just at his gaze—he cried.  


but after whiles passed, his mind venturing, sleep calling yet evading him when tears found themselves dry with tire; the delicate boy finds that the car has stopped. there is no sound, where they are; nothing but howling winds and his mother’s pitiful sniffles from the front seat.  


his father whistles delightfully, getting out of the car to greet an unfamiliar figure that emerged from the darkness. his father opens her door and barks at her to leave. “eomma!” he cries when she abruptly gets out of the car, leaving him behind with a sullen jehan.  


suddenly, the newcomer is inside the van—sitting in the space between the front row and their seats, where he and jehan sat cuddled together in silence. the man stares at them quietly, for what seemed to be forever, until he smiles at him, and jay hides his face in jehan’s arm shyly when the man puts a large hand on his leg, whispering lowly. 

“you’re very pretty.” he breathes, coming close to his tiny chest to indulge in the speedy beat of his little heart—his fingers alone wrap around the three year old’s entire thigh, but his grip is strange and warm, just like his face; stubble scratchy through his shirt and breaths hot, jaebeom becomes uncomfortable and gargles out in upset; jehan pushes him away gently, “don’t touch him.” he mutters, the seven year old staring coldly albeit his gentle tone.  


“ _ooh._ a protective older brother? how alluring.” he smiles—more like a grin, scathingly bright and yet so perverse—and jehan scowls, upset as the man in turn caresses his face.  


he huffs a bit, “your little one,” he says to jehan, poking the three year old; “he’s very pretty.”  


once more, he turns to jaebeom, little and shy and unable to understand —“have you ever been on a plane?” he asks, saccharine tone miffing the toddler,, he doesn’t answer; ignores the man in favor of embracing his hyung tightly.  


“you two...” he mumbles, obvious amusement making him fall back with a grin. “when you’re older...could _maybe_ make thousands; ‘cept the older one—he’d mess it all up trying to save you.” he then laughs again, “you've gotta keep 'em.” he announces out the window, causing their father to groan in dismay as he opens the door and crushes a fag beneath his worn boots.  


the man, smile darker than before, turns back to the small children, “so, a plane?”  


jehan growls at him when he attempts to touch his little brother again.  


the man chuckles a bit, eyes reduced to dark slivers; “you’ve not been, I suppose.”  


he cackles idly before getting up and out, leaving the van behind in the dampness of night until their parents arrived to collect them from the car.  


no, he’d never ridden in a plane before.  
but as he’s pulled into his mother’s arms, he notices the little plane and the strange man going into it.  


really: he’d never ridden in a plane.  
but there he was, huddled in the corner of a trashy plane with his mother and brother—watching his father grin at the lights and buildings they left below, “home is where you’re not a criminal.” he jokes with that dark eyed man that, in turn, rasped out a smokers laugh.  


he wondered aloud, idly blinking up at his brother as he gurgled out a mispronounced ‘criminal’—the older boy shrugging his curiosity away with a kiss to his forehead, a ghost of a smile lifting his lips.  


with no luck in trying to ask again (his brother having turned away to peer out the window) he whispers a messy question to his mother—she shakes her head and kisses his cheek until he giggles.  


“we’ll be in our new home soon.” his mother had pitifully said, attempting some form of comfort as the three year old realized he'd left his favourite toys; though his tears faded when his attention was snatched by the rattle of the plane's insides.  


soon he was too tired to care, and he found his eyes drooping and sleep coming to him—his little limbs heavy and his mother too loud with question of why she had to do _something_ so late.  


...

late in the night he wakes up to the thick air of the ocean, salty and bitter to his nose and mouth—his eyes stinging with sleep as he tried to make out the burning light before them.  


a boat, way bigger than he’d ever seen—“bigger than dino!” he’d exclaimed to his mother, whom only smiled before covering his head with her jacket and walking towards the giant ferry.  


he gets to go on a boat, and it makes his tummy hurt because the water moves so much and he thinks there might be monsters in the dark spots that float by the lower parts of the boat— but when he throws up his father slaps him and tells him to stop and his mother soothes his heaves with a hug and says bad words to the angry man for slapping him.

he cries when his mother gets yelled at and he gets pushed out of the area to sit with jehan, his older brother hugging him and telling him their new home would be even better.  


the comfort of jehan’s embrace lasted only so long before he was called by their father and such a dirty looking man (his head was bare and his face was covered in white hair, his teeth were yellow and his mouth stunk of smoke—when the man put his mouth against jaebeom’s, scaring the three year old, he’d smelled of smoke and tasted like alcohol (the thing appa always drank)—the man had taken jehan away.  


and though he wanted to see what had his family distanced from him, he felt tired again; sleepily peering at how jehan and their father stood so far away from him. when sleeps consumes him again; he doesn’t notice the look the dirty man sends jehan; and he doesn’t see when jehan disappears into a faux bedroom.  


he does, however, notice that he is alone.  
and he could not bear the loneliness, so he slept it away; wishing for home.  
the waters rushing the boat and the engines moving it never stopped for him though, and light soon seeped through the horizon even when his tears began to run once more.  


in the hours that followed, seattle was a mere memory and fear was the new reality.


	3. two

getting off the boat is fun—for once, appa holds him, and he runs fast; so fast air rushes in his ears, and plays with his hair.  


eomma is fast too, and jehan looks so big in her hands.  


when they stop running, it’s silent again.  


the time had begun to roll by uselessly.  


as they finally arrived, in a boring looking place with people just like eomma and appa, hyung and him; he became restless.  


everyone dressed differently, with different hair styles in varying colours and many different body types—yet each happened to resemble little jaebeom in one way or another, with white skin and sharp eyes each sat proudly beside a thin and tall nose bridge.  


jaebeom doesn’t like them.  


he doesn’t like how they look, how they act; he doesn’t like how they smell, how they breathe—he doesn’t like this place.  


he misses home.  


he misses the pretty woman next door with her thick curls and giant earrings, the hairy man with a thick accent who ran the bakery, the blue eyed baby sitter with the round belly and pretty clothes—he misses them, the shapes and colours of their small existences.  


he hates any and everyone here, wherever it was, because they were all just colourless copies: carelessly pasted on each street; primped, proper, and close-minded, without a single strand of originality.  


this was not home.  


the tears fight their ways out his eyes, and his father grimaces before turning away; _he wants to go home._  


he wails, loudly, into the crook of his mother’s thin neck; unsure of this new world so big and far before him. she hushes him, distracted as they walked and walked; feet afire as maybe miles slid beneath them and hours rolled with them—he doesn’t understand, doesn’t get that something bad might happen; doesn’t get that they weren’t regular people anymore, they were fugitives all under the fault of one’s name.  


“wanna go home!” he cries, tears fat and endless as he hugs onto his mother—he doesn’t like this place, all grey and boring.  


time doesn’t cease his cries, the concept of it barely even exists to such a small boy anyway, but for maybe an eternity he cries, wailing in sorrow as he longed for the warmth of his home; but then jehan, so tall and wise, hands him a snack and pats his head and says words that only big brother can make sound right.  
little jaebeom cries no more.  


he smiles, a little smile still incomplete with its collection of tiny teeth—and jehan smiles back, his eyes sparkling under the bleary lights of wherever they were.  
they continue to walk.  


forever and ever, the world passes by slowly; everything replacing itself with something new yet similar each heart breaking step.  
they walk on.  


hushed conversations and the stillness of a saddened city accompany the lonely buildings and plastic people, and soon enough his single digit age confirms itself; and he sleeps, breathing small breaths in his sleep as he nuzzled his mother’s thin shoulder.  
for whiles, even as he slept; they walked.  


////  


little jaebeom sleeps too long.  


when he blinks, his eyes burn, his tiny mind muddled and curious of how it could rest so much—he can’t remember falling asleep, but finds his attention taken by the sight before him.  


all he recalls from before is the gray sky and the even grayer people living beneath it, but it slips from his mind when a colour so bright it makes him smile appears.  
a small, red car.  


it looked like a toy for a giant, all rounded and childish in design—the doors are unlocked, but from afar his little eyes spy messy seats and another’s belongings.  
eomma gently lets him down to stand on wobbly legs and opens her door, frowning while jehan struggles to open his own—their father easily sliding into the front seat with the strange wheel as they all collected in such a toy like car.  


the space was limited and held no area for comfort lest you were the size of a pea, but even so jaebeom found it more inviting than the dreary place beyond them.  


////  


they live in the car for no less than a penny, nowhere to go and nowhere to be leaving the little red buggy a blessing to wide spaces and parking lots—the floor of the car is dressed with takeout boxes and plastic bags galore, receipts taunting the little money they have when they do return to little shops and fast food chains.  


every time they go hungry, jehan disappears into the grey of outside— _“hyung, hyung, hyung; where are you?”_  
he could wail it for hours and never be answered, but his qualms are sated as soon as something just good enough to quench his thirst and endless hunger is offered to him.  


little jaebeom doesn’t understand how time flows, doesn’t understand what time _is_ , but months have passed it seems; and he’s slowly growing, slowly learning more.  


his fourth birthday is spent inside the small red car, waiting for eomma and appa to come back, as jehan feeds him an apple. the red skin is just like the paint on the plastic of the car, and it sits in jehan’s hand like a planet. it takes all the time in the world for them both to finish it, but jaebeom is small, naïve; and satisfied.  


he lays in his brothers arms, tiny and happy, clueless as can be; and they wait and wait, wishing to see their parents.  


when the two adults, all so grown up and tall, return; little jaebeom is drowsy, full, and happy. he falls asleep as the car begins to move.  
what he doesn’t see, though wouldn’t understand nonetheless, as he dozed off; was the shotgun tucked between eomma’s shaking legs, and the red, red blood on appa.  


when my fingers rub against the edge of the paper, and the page turns, the sun rises, and they have a home.  


a _real_ home.  


little jaebeom no longer cares for the red car, or the apartment back in seattle, but for the big house sat on a quiet hongdae street; empty of people, yet filled with furniture; just for them.  


a house, just for them.  


a _home_ , just for them.


End file.
